Covert One 4 - The Altman Code (33 page)

Instead of returning to the corridor where so much shooting had happened
only moments before, Randi opened a side door in the office. They ran
across a storage area to another door that opened into another corridor.

Their first priority was to get out before the police arrived. The
sirens in the distance were growing louder, closer.

“Thanks for the diversion,” he told her. “They were closing in on me.”

“Always glad to help a pal.” Her American voice from the Chinese face
was unnerving. The CIA had done a remarkable job of turning a citified
blond Caucasian into a black-haired Chinese peasant.

“Where are we?” “Same building,” she told him, “but a different wing.
It’s the old English style of office construction. It kept the ” and
corridors from being too crowded.”

This wing was quiet after quitting time, too. They rushed into an
elevator and headed down to the ground floor–and then down one more
level toward the basement.

As the elevator clattered, Jon said, “Impressive how well you know this
building.”

She glanced at him. “Research.”

“So my problem upstairs was impacting your assignment.” She said
innocently, “Ralph Mcdermid not only likes acupuncture, he’s been
panting after the girl who gives the shiatsu massage. This time, he
seemed to have more than needles and flirtation in mind. You must’ve
activated him somehow. Could there be something not on the up-and-up in
the Altman Group’s China installation?”

“How do you know those gunmen were here for me? Maybe I bumbled into a
trap set for you. The CIA doesn’t tail private American citizens for the
fun of it. Langley must suspect Mcdermid’s up to something against our
interests.”

The dance had begun. They looked away from each other as the elevator
stopped and the door opened onto a storage basement, complete with the
stink of dampness and the scurrying noises of rats.

“Why in the devil were you tailing Mcdermid?” Her voice was half
aggravation, half resignation. The perfect Chinese mask of her face
remained impassive.

To reveal his investigation into the Empress would encourage her
suspicions about his Covert-One activities. He needed to tell her
something plausible. She might not believe him, but she would be in no
position to accuse him of lying. He decided the same story he had given
Charles-Marie Cruyff would have to do.

As she led him through a dim maze of cellar rooms, he explained, “I was
at a biomedical convention in Taiwan for Fort Detrick when I ran into a
fellow from Donk & Lapierre’s field lab in China. What he described was
intriguing, so I caught a flight to Hong Kong, hoping to get permission
to take a look at his work. The lab’s honcho, Cruyff, sent me to
Mcdermid, who I guess is his boss. Mcdermid’s been impossible to pin
down, so I tailed him and stumbled into this hornet’s nest.”

“Right.” Randi shook her head. “And I’m here for the noodles.” He
thought he heard her chuckle. He said, “Far be it for a humble scientist
to inquire into a CIA field operation.”

“You always hang around office mezzanines in a Hawaiian shirt, straw
hat, and running shoes, when you want a professional, scientific favor?

Probably for the same reason you carry a Beretta and extra ammo. Oh,
gosh, wait a minute. I’ll bet you planned to put a gun on him to
convince him to be nice.”

So she had either been watching him deliberately, or they had crossed
paths because of the similarity of their missions. “In case you haven’t
noticed,” he said blithely, “Hong Kong’s miserably hot. Of course I wear
Hawaiian shirts. As for the Beretta … remember, my final destination
was mainland China. I arranged with the Pentagon for permission to
carry, because the field lab’s in a remote area–bandits and all.”

He had managed to turn her suspicions into an innocent story. In fact,
all of it could be true. But he knew her well; she would not drop this.

She would find harder, more probing questions. It was time to distract
her and to get out of the building.

He nodded at cement stairs ahead. “Those for us?”

“Clever of you.”

Again, she led the way, bending so her tall hat did not catch on the low
ceiling as she climbed. At the top, she pushed open a slanting door and
slid out. He followed, lowering it quietly behind. She was already
moving away. He fell in beside her. They were in a narrow alley that
smelled of urine and charcoal. Moonlight reflected off the grimy
brick-and-stone walls.

Five minutes later, they were in a taxi heading back toward Central.

“Where do I drop you?” Randi asked. She pulled off the hat, shook out
her black wig, and sat back.

“The Conrad International,” Jon said. “Listen, everything I told you was
true, but there’s a little more–”

“What a surprise, dearie.”

He shot her a look. “USAMRIID thinks there’s something fishy going on at
Donk & Lapierre’s Chinese lab. Maybe they’re conducting research, doing
experiments that’d be illegal in the States, and putting government
grant money intended for basic research into applied research to develop
commercial pharmaceutical products.”

“I expected something like that. So you’re here investigating?”

Jon nodded. “I won’t ask exactly what the CIA’s interest in Mcdermid is,
but maybe we could share anything we find not directly related to our
own assignments.”

Randi turned away, looking out the window. She was smiling. Despite all
the baggage between them since her sister’s death, she liked Jon. She
enjoyed working with him. She turned back, still smiling. “Sounds like a
good thing. Okay, soldier. Whatever I turn up that I can’t use, I’ll
tell you. And vice versa.”

“Deal.”

The taxi stopped at his hotel on Queensway. As he got out, he turned
back to ask, “Where do I contact you?”

“You don’t. I know where you are. If anything changes, leave a message
at your hotel’s front desk addressed to Joyce Ray.”

Despite the proposition he had offered her, he wanted very much to know
what the CIA’s connection to Mcdermid and the Altman Group was. He would
ask Klein to check into what Langley was up to, which meant he would
have to let Randi go her own way for now.

“Fine,” he said. “Keep in touch.”

She was still smiling as the taxi pulled away into traffic.

Washington, D.C.

In his bedroom, the president was still buttoning his shirt when Jeremy
knocked and spoke through the door, “Director Debo, sir. She says it’s
urgent. Would you like to take the call?”

One more emergency was not what he needed. “Of course. Put her through.”

The Director of Central Intelligence, Arlene Debo, had been appointed to
the position by the previous administration, and he had kept her on,
despite her affiliation with the opposition party, because he trusted
her. She was very good at the job.

Her voice was just below strident, her natural tone. “Mr. President, my
people ran the statistics on the leaks. The vast majority of them are
related one way or another to defense and military matters. Did you know
that?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because I instructed our agents to concentrate most heavily on the area
on and around the joint chiefs, and it’s paid off with our first hit.”

The president sat down on the edge of his bed. “Who?”

“Secretary of the Army Jasper Kott.”

“Kott? Kott himself? Are you sure?” He was shocked.

“He went to Manila on somewhat questionable army business, so we put an
agent with him. Sure enough, he slipped away in civvies and went into
the city to what appeared to be a pleasure trip to a brothel where our
agent was unable to follow. However, she’d had the foresight to contact
our station chief, and he had a man there quickly, who went in as a
customer. He learned Kott had insulted the house by not being there for
‘fun.’ He was meeting a man and reporting on your recent military budget
session.”

The president frowned. “What man?”

“Ralph Mcdermid, CEO of the Altman Group.”

“Mcdermid? My God. He was telling him about our budget discussion?”

“Indeed, Mr. President.”

“Insider trading?”

“We don’t know yet, but we’ll find out. Our agent and her team are
shadowing Mcdermid now, too, as we speak.”

“Keep briefing me, Arlene. Thanks.”

“My job, sir.”

After hanging up, he finished dressing, his forthcoming breakfast with
the vice president far from his mind as he pondered the possible motives
for Secretary Kott’s deceit and Mcdermid’s involvement. Was it simply
extremely bold economic espionage to gain a business advantage … or
something else?

Few people knew the White House had two family dining rooms–one in the
northwest corner of the main floor and the other upstairs in the private
quarters, remodeled with a small kitchen originally for Jack and Jackie
Kennedy in 1961. Like Jack Kennedy, Sam Castilla preferred to keep the
upstairs one private for his family, too. He and Cassie could sit around
with uncombed hair, still in their bathrobes, drink coffee, and read the
Sunday papers without worrying about being disturbed except under the
most unusual emergencies.

Still, he liked this family dining room on the first floor, too.

Although it had a vaulted ceiling and was furnished with solemn
Hepplewhite and Sheraton pieces, it was small relative to other White
House rooms, and the fireplace and yellow walls gave it warmth and
intimacy. This morning, it smelled pungently of chiles and cheese. He
had invited Vice President Brandon Erikson for breakfast to discuss his
coming trip to Asia.

The vice president forked a mouthful of scrambled eggs, New Mexico
style, and nodded with appreciation. “What do you call them, sir?”

“Huevos jalapenos, one of Celedono’s best recipes,” President Castilla
said. “And you don’t have to be so damned formal here, Brandon. This is
us having breakfast so we can talk about your trip east, not some
official briefing.”

“Being in the White House tends to make things formal.” The vice
president had an easy smile and a smooth voice. “Some think that and
worse. I remember Harry Truman called it the big white jail, and William
Howard Tail said it was the loneliest place in the world. But I tend to
agree with Jerry Ford. He claimed it was the best public housing he’d
ever seen. I like that.”

“The place does inspire awe.” The president examined the vice
president’s handsome face, the perfectly barbered cheeks, the thick
black hair that made him look a good ten years younger than his forty.
He had the kind of manly Hollywood good looks that attracted women and
encouraged trust in men. A valuable political combination. Since this
was their last term, and the party was increasingly focused on Erikson
as its next presidential candidate, Castilla decided to have a moment of
fun. “You planning to live here, too, Brandon?” Erikson chewed, his eyes
closed. When he opened them, he sighed with appreciation. “These are
some fine eggs. Please give my compliments to Celedono. Of course, Sam,
I’d be a fool to be working my tail off if I didn’t have a few ideas.
Might be pleasant to have a shot at seeing what I can accomplish.”

“You did plenty in the congressional elections. You were everywhere at
once. We appreciated that. You’ll have a lot of IOUs to call in.”
Erikson smiled wider. “Especially since so many of our candidates won.
I’m proud of that.” Brandon Erikson knew the political score. It was one
of the prime reasons Castilla had wanted him on his ticket. Now it was
Erikson’s chance, and Castilla figured he had earned it. “You have
enough money? You know the opposition’s been filling their war chest for
eight years, just waiting to make a roaring comeback. They’ll throw
everything at you, including the sidewalks of New York. And if I’m right
about who your opponent’s going to be, you’re facing one of the nation’s
largest family fortunes.” For the first time, the vice president showed
uncertainty. The cost of not just running but winning a national
campaign had become obscene.

Candidates spent more than half their time on the telephone or at
fundraisers, convincing donors to empty their pockets, instead of
working on issues.

“I’ll be ready,” the vice president vowed. Ravenous ambition was naked
on his face, then vanished.

For a moment, Sam Castilla was sent back into the past, to his
beginnings as a young congressman in New Mexico, with no money, no name,
and no connections. Serge Castilla had said, “Be careful what you dream,
son. No one’s going to give it to you. If your dream’s expensive, plan
on paying for it yourself.”

He saw Serge–the man he had always called Dad–smile knowingly, his
desert-bleached eyes amused, his dark skin a cobweb of wrinkles. Serge
had understood him well. He wondered what kind of advice David Thayer
would have given. Whether he was as wise and kind. What kind of man he
had aged into. For an instant, he was furious at being cheated of his
biological father, and then he felt the deep sadness that must be David
Thayer’s. To have been in captivity for a half century, kept from
everyone and everything he loved, from his own dreams and ambitions …
. What kind of personal hell had Thayer been through?

He pulled himself back to the present. “You know you have my complete
backing, Brandon. Now I’d like your input. As I recall, you’re visiting
Afghanistan, Pakistan, and India.”

“We’re trying to keep it flexible, of course. The political situation is
so dicey in those areas that I might stop in Hong Kong and Saudi Arabia,
too. With all the terrorist threats, the State Department has some
arm-twisting in mind for me.”

“Sounds good. We have to keep working on this on all fronts.”

“Exactly–”

The door of the dining room opened, and Jeremy’s head appeared around
it. The president’s personal assistant would never have interrupted a
breakfast with the vice president unless the matter was urgent. “Admiral
Brose, sir. He needs to see you immediately.”